Drunk Mrs Hughes
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: Exactly what it sounds like: prepare yourselves. Carson/Hughes.
1. Chapter 1

**This whole story will probably seem horrifically out of character by definition; just try to think of it on the basis- my favourite basis- that war-related stress does funny things to people, particularly housekeepers and butlers. **

There was a curious silence about the servants' quarters that evening, Charles Carson observed. No one seemed to be about; everything seemed remarkably still. But then, he thought sadly, this was increasingly common these days: nothing like a war to diminish hustle and bustle around a house. The air was drearily cold even for January. What he wanted, he did not mind admitting to himself, was some company and he knew where he was likely to find it. Increasing his pace down the corridor, he reached the housekeeper's sitting room.

Although he was by far the most frequent visitor to the room, apart of course from Elsie herself, his manners compelled him to knock. He did so quietly, the hush over the corridor making him particularly conscious of the sound. No response came; which was decidedly odd as light seeped out from under the door and it was most unlike Elsie to leave the light on while she wasn't in the room. He gave it a moment and then knocked again, more loudly this time and clearing his throat as he did so. Much to his surprise the response he received was a single hiccup.

Unsure as to whether the sound was a call of admittance, he entered the room cautiously, peering his head round the door before fully stepping in. The sight that met him was the last he had expected: Elsie sat slumped in her arm chair in what seemed to be a rather sleepy state, a glass in her hand. A bottle of whiskey, minus a rather generous measure, sat by her feet. As his eyes swept over her she seemed to realise that someone else was present: looking up in what seemed to be confusion. Realising it was him, however, she gave another loud hiccup and sank still further into the armchair.

"Charles," she murmured, a lazy smile creeping onto her face.

He felt a pang of relief that at least she wasn't so drunk she couldn't tell who he was.

"What on Earth have you been up to, Elsie?" he asked quietly.

He had meant to do so rhetorically, but received an answer anyway.

"I should have thought," she supplied with an air of feigned slurring superior intellect, "That it was quite obvious."

With that, she moved the glass in her hand back towards her face for another drink but, never quite off duty as a butler, he managed to manoeuvre himself swiftly enough to be able to take the glass off her before she was able to take one.

"I think you've had quite enough of that," he admonished gently.

Unless he was seeing things- unlikely as it was _her _would had been swigging down neat whiskey- she pouted at him in reproach.

"Bloody spoil sport," he heard her mutter, scowling.

Her childish demeanour almost caused him to chuckle out loud, but stopped himself. The degree of hell that there would be to pay if any of the staff saw her like this was a very sobering thought.

"Elsie," he began, "We should probably see about getting you into bed."

The look of startled horror she gave him seemed somewhat uncalled for and he wondered what he could have said to offend her.

"How dare you proposition me!"

It came out very loudly and he was instantly thankful that there was no one else on the ground floor.

"No, Elsie," he told her hurriedly, "That's not what I meant; I'm not trying to sleep with you, I only-..."

"Why?" she demanded, all thoughts of her previous exclamation seeming to have vanished, "Aren't I good enough for you?"

Oh good Lord, he thought, she was adorable when she was drunk. Eyes shining like great brownish fires, a beguiling tone in her face and her pale skin slightly more coloured than normal. Then, good heavens man, this isn't the time!

"Quite the contrary," he told her softly, hoping to placate her, "But Elsie, I think what you need is-..."

"You!"

The force and speed with which she threw herself out of her chair and towards him caught him off guard and he was just in time to catch her. That was nothing, however, to the effect of the word she had cried as she did so.

"S-sorry?" he stammered, noticing how she was pressing herself to him despite his arms trying to hold her firmly upright.

"It's you I want, Charles!" her face ablaze with alcoholic passion. Heavens, she was beautiful.

"I think you ought to sit down," he told her shakily.

At his words she descended swiftly onto the settee, though he had a suspicion that she would have done so regardless of whether or not there was a chair there.

"Where are you going?" she demanded as he hurried towards the door.

"To get you some coffee," he replied, "For heavens sake, stay there!"

She nodded with unnecessary vigour and then vanished from view behind the back of the settee. He rather got the impression that she was lying down flat on her back, but now wasn't the time to be dwelling on the ladylike attributes of her sitting position. Speed was of the essence as he boiled the kettle to make her some coffee, anxious that someone might return to the servants' floor and discover her. Happily though, she lay undisturbed and seemingly asleep when he returned to her sitting room. It was only when he had poured the coffee into a cup at the table and returned to her side that he noticed a tear trickling from under her eyelid.

"Elsie?" he asked cautiously.

She opened one eye and took in who it was.

"Oh." It came out half way between a murmur and a sob. She continued to lie, there both eyes, open quietly crying until he helped her sit up and carefully let her hold the cup of coffee.

"Whatever's the matter?" he asked gently, not only referring to her tears: something must have happened to induce her to start drinking in the first place.

She took a gulp of coffee and was silent again for a moment. Then:

"It's my birthday today."

"Oh."

He had known it too, only he had forgotten amid everything that had been going on recently. Suddenly, he felt a great surge of responsibility for her state: if only he had remembered she might not have begun.

"Fifty-five years old," she was saying, dabbing at her left eye with her sleeve with the coffee teetered precariously in her right hand.

"Here," he said, hurriedly removing the coffee and placing it on the table before handing her a handkerchief.

"Fifty-five," she repeated in case he hadn't heard the last time, "It's a fine old age."

"Less of that, thank you," he replied, "There's some of us older than that."

She snorted.

"You're a butler, you're allowed to be old."

Of all the odd things to say... But he didn't get a chance to comment on it before her sobs seemed to renew.

"Fifty-five, Charles," her eyes were streaming now, "And we use to be so young!"

"People do get old," he told her softly.

She sat there a while crying while he sat there unsure of the best course of action to take. Luckily though, she solved that problem for him.

"Hold me," she half-whispered, half-hiccuped , but amazingly managed to remain audible.

There was nothing he could do but obligingly wrap an arm around her shoulder. It seemed however, that she wasn't able to put up much resistance to the force and seemed to keel over rest her head on his body. If she hadn't been inebriated and crying he would have felt elated at the way she possessively draped her arm around him. So content he was to just sit there and act as a pillow for her that it took him a while to realise that she had fallen asleep on him.

Drowsy now himself, it took him a while to summon the will to move but at last he managed to shift her head away from his chest and stand. Gathering her up in his arms and trying not to wake her, he gradually shifted them across the room and began to ascend the stairs.

Once in the servants' corridor he shuffled quietly toward her room; the last thing he needed was for someone to come across him bundling them both in there. He managed it though, clicking the door safely shut and lying her at last on the bed. She wasn't heavy at all but it was nevertheless a relief to deposit her onto the sheets. He couldn't possibly remove her clothes, she would just have to sort herself out when morning came and he checked to make sure that there was a spare dress in the wardrobe. As he moved to lave the room there was a shuffling from the bed and what seemd to be a sigh and then:

"Charles..."

He thought he must have misheard, but it came again, she murmured his name quite clearly, turning over in bed. Taking a few steps back towards the bed he saw that her face carried a blissful smile. Oh to lie beside her and hold her! Just for a moment. But of course it was out of the question, she would have enough to come to terms with the next day without finding out that he had taken advantage and lain beside her. Pulling the blanket further over her and brushing the hair off her face, he moved himself back to the door.

**Don't tell me I'm _too _ridiculous. A morning-after chapter? Please review!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for your lovely reviews on chapter 1. By comparison this one makes it look highly plausible, so again: be warned! The numbers are acting as make shift page breaks as my computer doesn't really seem to grasp the concept of them. **

**The next morning...**

**1.**

The words to describe the feeling in her head upon first waking did not exist. Then, gradually, vocabulary came swimming back to her: bloody, sore. She felt herself let out a loud moan- what the devil had she been doing with herself? It was barely possible to even tolerate the light streaming in from the window. Sitting unsteadily up in bed, she reached to put her hand down behind her and regain some semblance of balance but grossly misjudged how close she was to the edge and promptly fell out of bed with a dull thud. The feeling in head seeming to multiply itself by a thousand. Partially realising the ridiculousness of her situation, she heaved a few humourless laughs, which then turned more into piteous moans, then savagely exclaimed to herself:

"Oh, _hell_!"

How had she even been in bed? That indicated far more organised inebriation than she had ever displayed in her younger days. A blissful smile passed briefly over her features in the vague haze of memories that rose momentarily, but the overriding image of her drunkenly- and probably loudly- ascending the stairs watched by the whole household was indeed a sobering thought. She let out another despairing moan. It vaguely came into her consciousness that she was still dressed in her housekeeping dress; her new-found organisation even when drunk had evidently not progressed to the the point where she could negotiate a change of clothes. Suddenly, that she had no idea what time it was also came to her attention. Clumsily organising her limbs, she shuffled towards the clock at her bedside table. It was already half past seven.

"Oh, _hell_!"

**2.**

"What the blazes is going on in there?"

Amid the quiet and sombre period they were experiencing, it had been a good while since there had been occasion to press a glass against a door in order to eavesdrop. Perhaps it was for this reason that, having returned upstairs after their breakfast- at which the housekeeper had been absent, an event in itself- the somewhat unlikely combination of Anna and Miss O'Brien teamed-up in order to find a glass and to overhear whatever they could. So far they had heard a resounding thump and several audible moans and unladylike exclamations. In response to Anna's question Miss O'Brien shrugged but wore a devious expression.

"Perhaps she's got someone in there with her?"

That was a thought Anna didn't really need at that time of the morning.

"Shh! Keep your voice down!" she reminded her.

"What?" asked Miss O'Brien calmly, "Whatever she's up to she's hardly likely to be on the other side of the door listening to us with a glass now, is she?"

It was a fair point, Anna supposed, but given the suggestion that Miss O'Brien had just made she suddenly felt uncomfortable with the whole thing.

"We should go back down," she told her, "They'll miss us."

"No they won't," Miss O'Brien replied confidently, preparing to reapply the glass "Because the only one who'll be looking for us is in that room, doubtlessly ensconced in passionate embrace."

Again, not a thought Anna particularly wanted. Before she could reapply the glass, however, Miss O'Brien was stopped- much to Anna's relief- by someone else altogether.

"Anna? Miss O'Brien?" Mr Carson's enquiring tones reached them as he approached down the corridor, "What on earth are you doing up here?"

That, Anna thought, eliminated that passionate embrace theory as the most likely candidate was now scrutinising them thoroughly while waiting for an answer.

"I presume," he continued, "You were not hoping to acquire a glass of water from Mrs Hughes?" he nodded to the glass in Miss O'Brien's hand.

"No, Mr Carson," they replied.

"Then be off back to work," he told them firmly.

Knocking on the door firmly, he didn't want to give them any incentive to loiter and so opened the door and entered briskly. And instantly wished he hadn't: the sight that met his eyes was Elsie struggling her way out of last night's dress.

"Charles!" she half-shrieked, then winced as the sound apparently dealt a verbal blow to her head.

Not quite knowing where to put himself but sure he couldn't go back out there on the off chance of facing two giggling maids he could think of nothing better to do than to turn to face the wall.

"How are you feeling this morning?" he asked the wallpaper.

He was answered with a contemptuous snort.

"Dead." was the response he received.

He smiled empathetically. There was a period of shuffling from behind him, then:

"I didn't do anything too ridiculous, did I?"

There wasn't a good way, he found- aside from downright lying- to answer in a way that wouldn't leave her feeling overwhelmingly embarrassed.

"Apart from drinking a very generous measure of whiskey?" he asked lightly, hoping it would be enough to make her feel that he had answered and wouldn't press for further details.

However, it was in vain.

"You know perfectly well what I mean," she replied swiftly, "Did I do anything... silly while I was-... Oh bother, blast and damnation!"

At her sudden exclamation he turned cautiously. The sight he received was one that mightn't to most people but to him illustrated perfectly the turmoil that Elsie Hughes had managed to drink herself into the night before. She was stuck in her dress, unable in her delicate stead to negotiate with the hooks. Seeing him watching her she looked up at him imploringly.

"Feel free to run a mile afterwards, but could you give me a hand?"

Dangerous boundaries were being crossed and he knew it but it didn't stop him nodding then crossing the room to obliged. The awareness that having trespassed on her in her condition and then begun helping her out of her clothes was the exact opposite of gentlemanly behaviour was painful but it was difficult to work the hooks with his eyes politely averted. Fortunately for the situation, she was wearing a long white slip underneath.

"So did I?" she asked.

"Hm?" he hadn't quite been paying attention.

She looked at him rather impatiently as behind the cupboard door she manoeuvred her way into the new dress.

"Good heavens," she said with a wry laugh, "It must have been bad for you not to want to tell me this badly."

He considered his words.

"It depends how you look at it."

She emerged from behind the door, mercifully with all of her clothes on, looking at him with a familiar determination.

"Just tell me," she said bluntly, "I doubt it was something I haven't done before."

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"Well..." he began hesitantly, "It wasn't so unlike just now, if you think about it."

"What, I asked you to take my dress o-... Oh."

His hints were sufficient it seemed. Comprehension dawned briefly in her face swiftly followed by embarrassment. She crossed to her unmade bed and sat down heavily, burying her head in her hands. Unsure of what to say or do, he watched her cautiously from where he stood.

"This is the last time I touch a drop," came her voice at last, "Believe it or not, Charles, I'm no serial drinker but if I do the damage tends to be widespread. And it seems I have an alarming propensity for propositioning when I'm in a state."

It was the first he had heard of it, although, he considered, he had never seen her in a state like she had been in last night before. Her face rose from her palms and she surveyed him bleakly.

"I'm so sorry," she told him sincerely, "It must have been terrible for you to be in such a position."

He tried to smile slightly.

"I was more worried about your well-being," he told her truthfully.

"Is that how I ended up in bed?" she enquired.

He nodded, and then:

"I hope you don't think my intentions were-..."

"No, no of course I don't!" she replied firmly, "Silly man! I think we can be sure that your intentions can't possibly have been any more... sordid than mine were."

He smiled humourlessly; a snippet of memory, of wanting to lie next to her and hold her flashed before his eyes. It seemed when he pulled himself out of his thoughts that she was watching him closely and frowning.

"Are you all right, Charles?"

Concern evident in her face, he was both dismayed and relieved that the drunken beauty that he had perceived the night before in her features had by no means vanished but turned into... sober beauty. But he only shook his head gently and told her that they should probably be getting on with their day.

**Thank you for reading! I know I have now managed to leave this kind of unresolved, I didn't mean to but it's very good fun to write so if you'd like I'll do another one. Please review if you have the time. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Although possibly more plausible than the other too chapters, it still manages to feel equally as ridiculous, probably because I woke up ill and my brain doesn't seem to want to work but I wrote this anyway to kid myself that I'm doing work on the basis that it's on the computer.**

Much to his great relief, when he knocked on the sitting room door that evening he was answered by a call of admittance rather than a hiccup and once he had crossed the threshold found her sitting upright with a cup of tea.

"Checking I'm behaving myself, are you?" she asked with a rather shy smile, taking a sip.

He truly wasn't, but he realised that even trying to deny it would probably still leave her feeling embarrassed.

"Happy birthday," he simply said, hoping it might shift the discourse into a less awkward sphere.

She snorted at first but then smiled kindly at him, reassuring him that she appreciated it.

"That was yesterday," she reminded him wryly.

"Yes," he acknowledged, "But I don't think you would have remembered if I'd said it then."

She humbly took a quiet sip of tea.

"Fair enough."

"Could I have a seat?" he asked, starting to feel ridiculous standing around.

"Of course," she replied, and gestured to the space on the settee beside her, "Have some tea too."

It was all very... demure compared to their last two exchanges, he thought. Not that he had taken a liking to undignified or boisterous chitchat; just that he had quite liked seeing a more... well, another side to his usually proper housekeeper.

"So how often _do _you proposition people when you're drunk?"

It was unfortunate that he chose to say the first thing that came into his head but perhaps rather predictable; the question had flickered around his brain for most of the day now. It certainly moved the tone to the antithesis of demure. Really it wasn't all that surprising that Elsie spluttered a little into her tea; evidently he _had _developed a liking for undignified and boisterous chitchat.

"What a question to ask a lady, Charles!" she laughed. It was something of a miracle that she wasn't massively offended.

"You said it yourself this morning," he reminded her, hiding the embarrassment that he had brought upon himself by taking a drink of his own tea.

"In that case, about every two to three months."

It was his turn to splutter. Once he had partially recovered himself, he turned his incredulous expression to her. But she was laughing, he had missed the flippant air of folly in her tone. He couldn't help but give a half-incredulous but half-relieved snort.

"Charles, I'm teasing! I haven't touched a drop in years. "No gentleman callers"- remember?"

Unless he was grossly mistaken her tone sounded rather bitter as she mocked the mantra he had heard her declare seemingly in earnest so many times over the years. He hadn't realised she was as... as lonely as he sometimes felt. She continued:

"I haven't gone mad like that in years," she told him seriously, "Not since I was quite a lot younger."

"Rebel, were we?" he asked, trying to lighten the tone a little.

Her nod was almost sly.

"More than you'd probably believe. But don't tell any of the girls," her matronly instincts soared again, "I don't want any of them thinking that just because I did they can get away with it; I was hardly the most exemplary of role models. My mother was nowhere near the tyrant that I am now."

He smiled at that and not only in amused agreement at her occasional tyrannical ways: if she hadn't been drinking for years then she hadn't been... propositioning either: there was no one else to crawl out of the woodwork and take her from him.

"Charles, why do you look so happy at that?" her face was curious as it swam back into focus after his thoughts.

"So you haven't been... trying to acquire yourself a gentleman caller in a while, then?"

Although she narrowed her eyes in scrutiny she still looked as if she was amused in some way.

"When they trained you did they forget to tell which questions you're not supposed to ask ladies?" she enquired lightly. He was just about to make his apologies when she continued, "No I haven't. I don't think I'd have had much success at it either. Whiskey doesn't exactly increase my charms, from what I've heard."

Oh, how he begged to differ!

"You shouldn't listen to everything people say, Elsie," he told her.

She raised an eyebrow at him and took a drink of tea. They sat for a moment in companionable silence. Why- he thought- had this ridiculous, foolish woman allowed herself to be... what was it?- lonely, downtrodden, even, for all this time? All she would have ever had to do would have been to come to him. But that was presumptuous of him, he reminded himself, presumptuous of him to think that she would have wanted him. Then, the vague sleepy memory of the look on her face as she had said his name in her sleep lodged itself firmly in front of his eyes.

"Charles?" her voice jerked him back to the here and now, "You look a bit dazed. Am I that boring when I'm sober?"

"You'd have only ever had to come to me," he whispered.

There was a pause for a moment, and he thought she hadn't heard. Then:

"Sorry?" she asked, her expression indicating that she had heard but she couldn't quite believe her ears.

"Elsie, I'm not sure I've ever seen anything more beautiful than you were last night."

She looked as if she thought he was talking rubbish, which he supposed- given what she had demonstrated in terms of her self-esteem when it came to things like this- wasn't all that surprising.

"You weren't drunk as well, were you?" she asked cautiously.

"No!" he declared vehemently, "I just... I know you probably won't believe it, but you were. And I'm just glad it's me you propositioned... as opposed to anyone else."

"Is that so?" she asked.

"Yes," he told her honestly, "Because they might have said yes."

For a moment she just sat, sat beside him and stared at him as if he was speaking in some kind of foreign dialect. He was just in the middle of wondering what else he could possibly say when she kissed him. At first he was too taken aback to respond but he soon came round to the arrangement, taking her in his arms and kissing back enthusiastically. When they broke apart all he could say was:

"So you find this arrangement amicable even when you aren't drunk?"

"Oh yes."

**End.**

**Thank you for all your reviews so far, please review this last part if you feel the inclination.**


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